Chapter 7 - A Different Kind of Family
Six months later, Noah scored his first goal.
It happened on a muddy Saturday morning beneath a sky threatening rain.
I screamed louder than every parent on the field.
Roman screamed louder than me.
“THAT’S MY SON!”
Everyone turned.
I covered my face.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“You’re terrifying the other parents.”
“I’m supporting him.”
“You threatened the referee ten minutes ago.”
“I questioned his eyesight.”
“You asked whether he enjoyed having kneecaps.”
“That was humor.”
“You’re still learning.”
Roman smiled.
He looked different now.
No bodyguards beside the soccer field.
No black convoy.
No men whispering into earpieces.
Just jeans, a dark sweater, and tattoos he no longer bothered hiding.
The federal investigations triggered by the Salerno evidence had dismantled several criminal networks.
Roman cooperated fully.
He lost allies.
Lost properties.
Lost millions.
But he kept his legitimate companies.
More importantly, he kept showing up.
School conferences.
Doctor appointments.
Birthday parties.
Terrible science projects.
Every Thursday, Roman picked Noah up from school.
Every Sunday, the three of us ate dinner together.
And somewhere along the way, Sunday became Saturday too.
Then Friday.
Then most nights.
Noah ran toward us after the game.
“Did you see?”
Roman lifted him into the air.
“I saw everything.”
“I scored!”
“I noticed.”
Noah wrapped his muddy arms around Roman’s neck.
Roman didn’t care about his expensive sweater.
Watching them still hurt sometimes.
Not because I regretted bringing them together.
Because I understood how much time fear had stolen from all three of us.
Roman put Noah down.
The boy ran toward his teammates.
Roman came beside me.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
I nudged him.
He smiled.
Then his hand found mine.
Six months earlier, I would have pulled away.
Today, I intertwined my fingers with his.
“Claire?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you still think leaving me was the right decision?”
I considered the question.
“At the time?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“And now?”
I looked toward Noah.
Our son was laughing in the rain.
Then I looked at the man beside me.
Roman Vale had once commanded loyalty through fear.
Now he spent Tuesday nights helping an eight-year-old memorize multiplication tables.
“Now I think staying might be.”
Roman didn’t answer immediately.
He simply squeezed my hand.
Noah shouted from across the field.
“Mom! Dad! Come here!”
Dad.
Roman still reacted every time he heard it.
We walked toward him together.
For eight years, I believed the greatest gift I could give my son was keeping him hidden from his father.
I had been wrong.
The greatest gift was giving his father a reason to become someone worth finding.
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And this time, when Roman Vale followed us home, I wasn’t running from him.
I was holding his hand.
